Concerning Jam and Cat Hair
by Mariam Shabti
Summary: My first ever fanfiction - just a little one-shot...or it may continue. So, naturally, reviews and criticism of all kinds are welcome! Set a month after the disastrous Christmas party. In which Sherlock buys John a present, John wears a jumper, Sherlock crosses his legs, Molly grows a little of a backbone, and Sherlock eats a scone. Rated T for a little cursing and innuendo.
1. Chapter 1

Perhaps the jam had been a lapse in good judgment on Sherlock's part.

John had taken one look at the gift in Sherlock's hands and skulked past into the kitchen. Sherlock looked down at the jar of black currant jelly, the right corner of his mouth pulling down into a sort of confused grimace. The present had taken him about ten devoted minutes in the closest shop to decide upon and purchase. It was pretty, tasteful, and it was well sealed, so John couldn't think he'd managed to drug it (not that Sherlock had _any_ intention of _ever_ doing such a thing...unless it was for a case).

So what could possibly be wrong?

Sherlock sat in one fluid motion in his leather armchair, the jar of jelly balanced conspicuously on his uppermost knee. He ran his thumb in a tiny circuit on the armrest and gazed reproachfully at John's empty chair across from him.

John bashed about in the kitchen for a while. Porcelain clattered, a kettle whistled, and John bumbled and muttered about the lack of milk. He soon emerged, red-faced and glowering, with a full teacup in one hand and a plate heaped with scones in the other. He set these down on the arm of his plaid chair and plopped down in the seat.

He glared at the jar on Sherlock's knee.

"I suppose I should've fetched a knife for that," he murmured.

The tiniest of smirks lifted the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Unless you deem it fitting to furiously slurp it down as if it were an offensive cube of gelatin, I do believe a knife is required for the proper consumption of black currant jelly. So yes. Fetch one at once."

John grumbled incoherently and hefted himself out of his chair. He returned promptly with knife in hand – he also was carrying a full butter-dish and the remains of last weeks' jar of lemon curd. Sitting back down with a muttered curse, he angrily began buttering one of the scones.

Sherlock tossed the jar of jelly into his best friend's lap. His eyes took John in in one of his all-seeing, sweeping, x-ray glances –_ stiffened shoulders, tight lips in a pressed line, a strange, lingering scent of disinfectant, the favorite oatmeal-coloured, cabled jumper, a strand of cat hair here and there – _

_Cat hair._

Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and steepled his fingers under his nose.

John had finished the first scone. He crowned a second with a quivering, jewel-like dab of the jelly Sherlock had given him. It too disappeared.

Two more followed in quick succession, both buttered and smeared with jelly. A fifth scone was devoured also, this one split and spread with butter and lemon curd in the center and the topped with even more of the jelly, eaten like a sandwich.

John placed the knife back on the plate with the remaining scones and knocked back the cup of tea like a shot.

Only then did he look up at Sherlock's probing eyes. "Well," he said brusquely, "figured it out yet?"

"Obviously," Sherlock let the smug grin widen slightly.

John angrily licked his teeth.

"You were cheerful enough this morning, as you usually are," the detective began, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward slightly, hands gripping the arms of his chair, "but with an underlying note of apprehension that I noticed at once. You left, leaving with the rather transparent explanation of having 'errands' to run. I originally thought for the market, but apprehension concerning shopping? Not likely. That and the lack of purchases on your return and the fact that we are still lacking milk – "

"Bloody thanks to you," John grumbled.

" – hints at the intention of meeting someone. Not a friend, as I seem to be the only remaining 'friend' you have – "

"Ignorant arse."

Sherlock's hands spasmed. "Stop interrupting, John! My mind must _flow_ – I cannot function in jerks and stutters as you appear to be so accustomed to doing."

The fingertips met once more against the full bottom lip.

"You returned directly from a hospital. St Bart's, as it is the nearest one, and as the sterile, chemical-and-latex smell of the place has not yet had time to dissipate from your person. The smell of the chemicals are distinctly of the sort used in mortuaries. The very fact that you went while not in my company states the fact that it was a personal visit and not a professional one. The cat hair caught in your jumper hints at an embrace – the position and placement of the hair points towards a person of small stature, most probably a woman – and the only woman familiar enough to either of us who would hug you, be found in a mortuary, and own a cat is Molly Hooper."

John's eyes flicked down. He picked at a crumb on the knee of his trousers.

"Judging from your current emotional state," Sherlock went on gleefully, seemingly unaware of John's discomfort, "she said something to you she didn't mean, and after seeing its adverse effect she hugged you to attempt to make up." A strange look crossed his face then. His head cocked to the side.

"Why did you go to see _Molly, _of all people?" Sherlock said, almost to himself. "She's small and mousey and uninteresting. Certainly not to – "

"Ask her to dinner?" John interrupted, a note of harsh humor under the words. "Yeah, Sherlock. To ask her out. To _date _her. I like her. She's sweet and pretty and...safe."

Sherlock's chest felt tight. He quickly assumed his stoic mask.

"_You_ may think she's boring!" John went on, scratching at the hair next to his temple and staring determinedly at his knees, "_You _may find her...m-mousey and small. But at least she's got a heart. At least she can smile, a _real _smile. And she's brave. The bravest damned woman I've ever met."

Sherlock stared, his face passive but his mind screaming. _"She's got a heart. At least she a can smile, a _real_ smile."_

He, Sherlock, had a heart...didn't he? Wasn't that what was hurting so much? And _he_ could smile...but then he remembered the smug smirk he'd worn not moments before. No, that didn't count.

" – and after seeing her at Christmas, in the dress and her hair and her lipstick and her eyes..." John tore at the corner of this thumbnail. "You made her cry that night. Her eyes were so big and...and shiny with tears and you looked into them and said those terrible things as if you _wanted_ those tears to fall, like making her feel torn to bits and examined under a microscope was _such great fun."_

Sherlock's chest was so tight we was finding it hard to breathe. He _did _remember her eyes. And he remembered the horrible, sinking feeling he'd felt at seeing what he'd done, seen the name – _his _name – on the gift tag. It wasn't _meant_ to hurt. He'd been having a little fun, just a little, he'd wanted to show off...

For Molly? Had he wanted to impress her?

"She said no. She told you no." Sherlock was surprised at the emotion roused in himself by his own words. Of course she refused. Obviously she had. John wouldn't be so riled up over it if she'd accepted. Speak, John, say it, please say it, that she said no...

John was nodding. The tightness in Sherlock's chest lessened.

"She was sorry, of course," John muttered, "sweet as always, didn't want to hurt my feelings, but she said seeing you in the morgue all the time was already nearly too much for her to handle. She said she didn't know if she could bear being under your, and I quote, 'blasted critical eye every moment of every day. It would kill me.' She won't date _me_ because I'm too close to _you_!"

John laughed a bitter laugh and stood, ready to put away the tea mess. "You've hurt her too much. So, because of you, I'll never land a date again. Because you either scare all the girls away or lead them to believe that I'm gay for you."

Sherlock felt numb. For once, he could not muster the words to prove John wrong, or even wittily retort in his own defence. He stared at the fringe on the blanket draped over the back of John's chair, unseeing. Molly wanted to stay away from him. Molly could hardly even bear him in her lab.

He stood in one swift, fluid movement and caught up his coat and scarf on the way to the door. He paused, slipped the coat on and flipped up the collar, and looped his scarf around his thin neck.

"Where are you going?" John asked, too quickly, stumbling to a halt on his way back into the kitchen.

Sherlock tried to smile a real smile. He didn't think it worked – John's face tightened fractionally.

"To St Bart's," he replied, as if it were painfully apparent. He snatched a leftover scone from the plate in John's hand and stuffed it in his mouth. He turned and made it to the door before remembering something he'd forgotten to say. It _was_ the reason for fetching the black currant jelly, after all.

He swallowed, hard. "Ermm...heppy birf-day, John," he said thickly, spraying crumbs.

Then he'd swept away down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: It's been a while since I updated this one. But here you go. A little Molly/Sherlock interaction for your Friday night.**

It was quiet.

Funny that that would be the only thing running though his head as he swept down the familiar hall to Molly's morgue.

Because that's what it was, he realised. _Molly's_ morgue. Odd that such a sentimental thought would cross his mind, but even as he thought that he knew that the same little phrase had run through it unnoticed innumerable times before.

Molly's morgue.

He filed it away for later, in Molly's ever growing room. He put it in the corner behind the chrysanthemums, next to the little sounds her fingers made when she picked up a scalpel. Hmmm. Why'd he kept that?

The room was painted yellow, he saw. Why yellow?

_It's her favourite color, idiot._

The chrysanthemums were cheerful – orange and red. Were they her favourite too?

_Yes, you know they are._

He was jolted to reality when his fingertips automatically reached for the doorknob. He glanced through the glass in the door. Was she still there?

It seemed empty. Maybe if he checked the lab...but no. There she was, by the sinks. Hunched a little, facing the wall. Her coat was stained on the elbows, as if she'd leaned in blood. Her shoes were solid and respectable – none of those nonsense shoes women wore nowadays for Molly Hooper – so she'd been prepared for a long shift on her feet. Her hair was slipping from its hair band, forming a fringe of iridescent golden brown around her ears.

She turned slightly, rubbing her face. Her eyes looked pink.

His hand tightened on the doorknob. He couldn't do it. He didn't like dealing with tears. They were so mundane, a part of that sentimental human side that he loathed and neglected to nurture. He was ignorant of how to react, how to comfort (he shuddered) someone who was crying. Crying was for the weak. Tears were weakness.

But Molly Hooper's tears were not from weakness.

Molly Hooper was strong. She was a pathologist. She worked with death and sorrow every day. She worked with _him_ every day, and if John's complaining was anything to judge off of, that was very difficult indeed.

He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Molly turned at the sound of his entry, hastily wiping her cheeks. "Oh. H-hello. Lestrade hasn't got any new ones, but I've got a Joe Bloggs in the back if you were wanting to have a look or– "

"No," he said curtly.

She looked up at him, blinking. "Really? Well, I can get coffee – " She cut herself off this time, picking at the dried blood on her lab coat. She stared at his face for a moment, as if memorising it, before she hesitantly opened her mouth again.

"I think," she said, sounding strangled, "you can get your own this time."

He cocked his head to the side, and Molly looked mortified.

"If you want some, of course!" she amended. "Because if you don't, that would be ridiculous, getting yourself coffee if you didn't want any, goodness. Or maybe you just want in the lab, I don't think I've locked it, you can head – " she took a ragged breath – "right over.

"I don't want coffee," he said simply. "Or the lab."

She bobbed her head in a curt nod. "Right. Ok. Erm...I'm going home."

And she scurried past him into the hall.

Sherlock stood there, stunned, for a heartbeat or two. Then he raced out the door and caught Molly up. "Um, shouldn't you close up?"

"No," she said, her face turned away. Her pace sped up slightly.

He looked back at the morgue door, wide open. Stamford could close for one night, couldn't he?

"Look," he said, "if this is about John – "

Something that sounded suspiciously like a whimper ripped from Molly.

"So it is."

"What is?" she murmured.

"You're crying. Obviously because you had to turn John down, whom you care about a great deal. And you think it's my fault. Right, Molly?"

His voice sounded sharper than he would have liked, but it was too late now. She knew he was trying to comfort her, right? To understand? Because if there was anything Sherlock Holmes strove for, it was to understand anything and everything. Even if it was the sentimental, ridiculous emotions of estranged women.

She glanced up at him, then back down at her quickly moving feet. But not before Sherlock caught the shimmer of fresh tears in her eyes.

How mortifying, that he should be trapped walking down a chilly hospital hall with a sobbing woman. But it was his fault that she was so upset, and he was determined to put things to rights. How else would he have access to that tempting Joe Bloggs in the morning?

_That's not why._

_Shut up._

**A/N: Please review! And I shall reward those who do with Cumbercookies.**


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